When I got to Shiraz I noticed that there were black flags and banners draped throughout the bazaar and in the mosques. I inquired and was told that they were in mourning for Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed, who was killed in 680.

My second night as I was lying in my room, I heard the sound of chanting coming from the street. I sat up wondering what was going on. The evening call to prayers was over - what could it be? I grabbed my jacket and decided to find out.

In the street I saw a group of men marching in two lines. They were dressed all in black and carried a little device I later learned was called a shallagh. It had a short wooden handle and a cluster of light metal chains attached to one end.

The men marched along and every 8 or 10 steps they turned to face each other. As they did they chanted, "Hussein, Hussein" and at the same time swung the shallagh over their shoulder hitting their backs. Eight paces forward, face the center and swing the shallagh - over and over again.

There must have been several hundred men in the procession - slowly they filed past me. Standing there alone in the darkened street, a shiver ran though me. Somehow I found the whole thing a little frightening. There was something going on here I didn't understand. This intense religious feeling was alien to me. I also found it a singular moment and felt privileged to have witnessed it. Whenever I think of Iran, I remember that night.

Shiraz, Friday April 16
We took off early for Shiraz and for the first time left the desert. We climbed into rolling hills where there were little streams and wild flowers along the road. Before long we stopped in a small town - I forget the name - to visit another mosque. We found the door locked and went looking for someone to let us in. Moghadam asked a kid in the street and he directed us to a nearby bakery.

While Moghadam was trying to convince the baker to open the door, I watched the baker's men making bread. I had seen the same process in every town I had visited. Four or five men form an assembly line around a huge oven. The oven itself has a conveyor belt that transports the bread through it. Two guys feed flattened balls of dough in one end and the rest pick the baked bread off the other end. There is usually a line of customers waiting and they carry away the still warm flat bread draped over an arm.

Moghadam finally convinced the baker to walk over and open the mosque. Inside we found everything covered with scaffolding. It turned out not to have been worth the effort.

Around 2:00 we reached Shiraz. We had made excellent time because of Moghadam's reckless speeding. At one point he had been going near 100 mph (140 kph) on a narrow two-lane road. I was relieved I was through riding with him.

When we got to my hotel, the Park, Moghadam came in with me. I assumed he would be staying and I would have to follow him for one last day. Instead, as soon as I was checked in, he said good-bye. I was caught a little off guard and fumbled for some money as a tip. We shook hands and he was quickly gone. It took me a few minutes to realize how relieved I was.

I'll say this in his defense: Moghadam was trying his best to show me his country - and in fact, I had seen more with him that I would have on my own. It's just too bad I didn't want a guide. As I sat waiting for lunch, I started a new section in my journal. I called it Free Again. This, of course, says more about me than it does about Moghadam.

I had been told everything would be closed on Friday, the Muslim holy day. On the way into town I had seen some open shops, so I decided to take a short walk and see what might be going on. First, I walked toward the bazaar - where else? Along the way I consulted my map and decided to change direction. I headed for what I thought was the main mosque.

When I got there I discovered it was the Mausoleum of Shah Cheragh, an important pilgrimage site. The huge courtyard - as big as two football fields - was full of people milling about. Around the outside was a colonnade where more people were sitting in the shade talking. I could see that I had come to the right place.

I had read that this tomb was closed to non-Muslims, but I thought I might try to peek inside anyway. After standing around for a while, I took my shoes off and left them at the repository. I then walked to the entrance of the prayer hall and stood there for a few minutes too. No one seemed to notice me, so I walked slowly inside, giving anyone who cared ample time to stop me.

The shrine was bisected by a drape-covered fence - blocking view between the men's and women's side. The tomb itself was right in the center. The shrine was packed, so I found a spot along the wall and stood looking around. I looked up and saw that the walls and dome were covered with mirrors, creating a sparkly brilliance. On the carpet-covered floor, I saw men kneeling in praying or sitting reading the Koran. It was at the same time very active and very quiet. I walked around a little and then left.

As I was putting on my shoes a family came over and tried to talk to me. They spoke no English, but we had a pleasant little interchange anyway. That was one of the most endearing things about Iranians: they were never shy and didn't let their lack of English stop them from making me feel welcome.

As I was walking away, a solider that had been standing near by walked over to me. He leaned close and said - his desire to communicate out stripping his command on English - "I love you." What can you say to that? Well, I said, "Thank you so much." He smiled shyly at me.

I found a spot on the colonnade and sat down to record my impressions. As I was writing two young soldiers came over and bent close pretending they were tying their shoes. I could see they were trying to look at my journal, so I invited them to see what I had been writing. Again we didn't have a common language, but had a pleasant little conversation. Before I left I took a picture of them saluting me. Their pride at being photographed was obvious.

Outside the mausoleum I saw a crowd of people down a dusty lane. A guy sitting at the mouth of the lane said to me, "Welcome to the general cargo bazaar." He had a big smile on his face like that was some kind of joke. What I found was a flea market. It had the oddest collection of stuff I have ever seen: dirty doll's heads and used car radios piled on the same blanket with new sunglasses and shoe soles. There were also folks selling food and one guy was playing some variation of three-card Monty - a game where you bet on which card will be red and which black.

On my way back to the hotel I passed through a produce market. As I was walking I heard someone yell, "Hey mister, execute me. Execute me, mister." I stopped in my tracks and turned around to see a potato vendor waving at me. "What?" I asked, "What did you say?" "Execute me, mister" he repeated, pointing at my camera.

After I took his picture he insisted that the man in the next stall come take our picture together. We stood with our arms around each other like long lost friends. As I was preparing to leave, the potato vendor handed me an ice cream sandwich. There seemed to be no end to Iranian hospitality.

Shiraz, Saturday April 17
I took the morning off and read in my room after breakfast. About 9:30 I grew restless and headed out to visit a few mosques. The most interesting was the Masjed-ye Khan in the center of the bazaar. The building itself was undergoing renovation and there wasn't much to see, but I did find a number of mullahs walking around inside. Mullahs are the Iranian clergy and the mosque was a training school. It was the first time I had a chance to take photos of them in an unobtrusive manner.

My tourist duties out of the way, I spent the rest of the morning in the bazaar. Like most Iranian bazaars, this one was a series of covered lanes, lined with small, open-front shops. A weak light shown through some dirty windows in the arched roof, but most of the illumination came from strings of bare-bulbs each merchant had strung around his wares. In the lanes and shops were women in black chadors and men in long-sleeve shirts. It was a very pleasant, busy place to walk and most people gave me little more than a passing glance. There was none of the insistent attention that you get in the bazaars of India and Egypt.

After walking around aimlessly for a while, I stumbled on the part of the bazaar that sold tourist items. It was located in a lovely old caravanserai with a pool in the center. In one shop I found a small silver box I liked and started talking to the owner about it. When he found out I was from America he told me he would made me a deal: if I would do him a favor, he would give me his best price.

He told me that he had just received a letter from a friend in New York who was coming to visit. He was afraid that if he replied by letter now she wouldn't receive it before she left. He wanted me to deliver a message by phone when I got home. I figured it could be an interesting conversation and it might even get me a lower price, so I said ok. After we agreed on a price for the box he gave me his friend's phone number.

When I got home I called her and delivered his message. She turned out to be quite knowledgeable about Iran and we had a very interesting talk. On the other hand I have no way of knowing if I got the best price on the box.

I stopped across the courtyard at another shop to buy some fabric for my mother who likes to sew. After I made my purchase, I met an Iranian student and we went walking in the bazaar together. He told me he had just gotten married and I congratulated him. He asked if I was looking for anything in particular and I told him, yes, a kilim. He offered to take me to a shop run by a friend of his dad's. I'm usually very weary of shopping this way, but I hadn't seen anything I liked in Shiraz, so I figured I didn't had anything to lose.

We started over to his friend's shop. Along the way we stopped at several shops run by his relatives. They were all very friendly and no one tried to sell me anything. Finally, we got to the carpet shop. I explained, through the student, that I was looking for a small kilim. The owner showed me some that were hanging on the walls and, when I didn't see anything I liked, he took off for his storage room. He came back with an armload. Again, I didn't see anything I liked. In fact, they all looked the same. The design was coarse and the quality wasn't good but, before I could stop him, he took off again. While he was gone I suggested to my student friend that he tell the guy to stop. "Oh, let him go," he said, "He really wants to sell you something."

And so on it went. Soon there was a knee-high pile of kilims in front of us and there was nothing I was even remotely interested in. It was time to stop. The shopkeeper had worked up a sweat and wasn't looking too happy. I told him I didn't see anything I liked. He told the student, as he gestured at the pile in front of us, that there must be something wrong with my eyes if I didn't see anything I liked. True enough, I guess, from his prospective. I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable and figured it was time to move on.

The student and I walked a little farther together. As we did, a particularly good-looking woman walked past us. He made a comment, the kind that guys all over the world make in such situations. I said, teasing him a little, "Hey, you're married now." He retorted, in the best male fashion, "It doesn't hurt to look." True enough. Soon after that we headed our separate ways.

Farther along in the bazaar I ran into two little girls, maybe 8 or10 years old. They were dressed in identically long, blue overcoats with a separate hood that fastened under the chin, framing their radiant faces. They just started walking along with me. We tried to talk but didn't have a common language. That didn't stop them from tagging along for a while. When they got ready to leave one of the girls reached into her book bag and pulled out a pencil, slightly chewed on one end, which she proudly handed to me.

I was actually a little embarrassed. I didn't know how to respond to this spontaneous generosity. I was also a little worried that when she got home and told her mother she had given her pencil to some guy in the bazaar she would get in trouble - but she was so charming I just couldn't refuse. I thanked her as best as I could.

While this was going on her friend, not to be out done, got out her ink pen, about half used, and gave it to me too. This only increased my discomfort. I thanked her also and we said good-bye. I hadn't gotten five steps away before the second girl tapped me on the arm. When I turned around she handed me the cap to the pen. I looked at those two girls, smiling so proudly and wished I had something from my country I could give in return. Money just didn't seem appropriate. I vowed I would be better prepared in the future.

Back at my hotel, I sat in the garden writing for a while and then decided to take the rest of the day off. I was starting to run out of energy.

Shiraz, Sunday April 18
One of the main reasons travelers go to Shiraz is to visit Persepolis. It was the capital of the ancient Persian Empire and was burned to the ground by Alexander the Great in the 3rd century BC.

I had arranged with the hotel for a car to take me out to Persepolis - it cost less than $10 for the half-day visit. Right after breakfast the driver showed up. He was a tall, thin fellow in his early 20s: he didn't speak any English. His car, a little white Iranian-built Paykan, must have been brand new. Almost every inside surface was covered with plastic: the seats, the floor and even the dash. He wasn't taking any chances on anything getting dirty. His driving was equally cautious: he went to great lengths to avoid any dirt or water in the road - and best of all, he drove very slowly.

Persepolis is about an hour west of Shiraz and along the way we saw thousands of sheep strung out along the road. I had been told that this was the yearly migration of the nomads to their summer pasture. This seemingly endless line of sheep was broken into little groups of perhaps 100 animals, each watched over by two or three men and a dog. The women for the most part rode in separate groups with the household goods. I had seen these same women, conspicuous in their brightly colored clothes, in the bazaar the day before.

We arrived at Persepolis just as it was opening and for first half-hour I had the site completely to myself. Most of what you see at Persepolis is the bases of huge buildings and lots of tall, thin columns that support nothing. It takes some imagination to put the place back together but the site is still quite spectacular. There was a cloudless, blue sky above and beige cliffs in the background.

After a while a group of Iran school kids showed up and my interest shifted to them. They walked around in little groups taking notes and sneaking an occasional peek at me. I walked around taking pictures and peeking back at them. Sometimes we smiled and said hello.

Outside I found my driver dusting his car. Next, he drove a short ways to the site of some Persian tombs cut into a vertical rock face. After a quick look we headed back to Shiraz past more lines of sheep. Wherever the sheep were crossing the road there was mass confusion as drivers impatiently tried to push their cars through the bleating flock.

After lunch I headed over to the bazaar yet again. I walked it end-to-end again and, when I ran into both the student from yesterday and, later, his friend the rug vendor, I realized I had been in Shiraz long enough. One of the things I like best about travel is the anonymity. When the vendors start recognizing me, it's time to move on.

Sitting in the hotel garden I realized I was getting tired of Iran - not that Iran is boring - but I had learned what I come to learn and had seen what I wanted to see. I lose interest in a place fairly quickly. Unlike some folks who want to know everything, I simply want to satisfy my curiosity and then move on.

I had some postcards to mail, so I took them to the hotel desk. The manager said they needed the destination written in Farsi and offered to teach me how to do it. First, he wrote the Farsi word for America and then I tried to duplicate it. The first problem was that Iranians write in the opposite direction we do: they write from right to left. I tried to duplicate what the manager had written - I tried it in both directions. I found I could do better by writing left to right. We both thought that was pretty funny. After a few more tries I decided his version was better and asked him to address the post cards for me.

There was a bookstore just around the corner from the hotel and I stopped there later for a quick look around. There is nothing I like better than nosing around some store, any store. First, I looked at the computer section, a subject I have more than a passing interest in. There was all the standard stuff: Windows 95/98, Office 97, Corel Draw and such. The product names were written in English and the text in Farsi.

I kept looking and stumbled on a copy of the Star Report, recounting President Clinton's sexual escapades, written in Farsi. That started me thinking. First, I wondered if all the sordid details were in there, this was Iran after all. Further, I wondered who would spend their hard-earned money on it: who would be that interested? This mess with Clinton was a subject I had studiously avoided at home, but now I wanted to ask some Iranians what they thought of it.

My chance came with a taxi driver back in Tehran. He started telling me how much he liked America and Bill Clinton. I suggested that Bill had been a bad boy and had gotten into a lot trouble. "Oh, it's no problem," the fellow laughed, "Many men have more than one girlfriend." Yea, I'm sure that's what the Ayaotollah would say too.

Tehran, Monday April 19
I took another pass at the bazaar and mosques in the morning, but my heart really wasn't in it - I was ready to move on. I ended up reading in the hotel lobby while waiting for my noon flight to Tehran.

At the entrance to the airport I dropped my things on the x-ray machine expecting to just walk though like I had in Tehran. Instead I spent the next fifteen minutes having my bags closely inspected by the guards. As if unpacking weren't bad enough, they would periodically find something that interested them and would either hold it up for the other guards to see or ask me why I had it. They wanted to know, for example, why I had five key chains with a picture of Ayaotollah Khomeini on them.

At first I tried to be good-natured and reminded myself that I was a guest in their country but the farther they dug the unhappier - and quieter - I got. When they were done and I was re-packing, one of the guards said, "Thank you," several times, letting me know that, on his side at least, there were no hard feelings.

After I got my boarding pass, I sat and tried to calm down a little - I was still pretty unhappy. After a few minutes my flight was called and I queued up to enter the departure lounge. Stupidly, I figured I would just walk through this x-ray, having so recently been scrutinized. As I was picking my stuff up off the x-ray machine, I was stopped again. I protested but no one spoke English. Then a guard just grabbed my stuff and walked away with it. I tried to follow but another guard stopped. He motioned I should wait. I stood there for a few minutes trying to decide what to do and he kept motioning that I should sit down. Finally I did, but I was real upset.

At this point an Iranian came over and sat next to me - he just wanted to talk. He made the mistake of asking how I was doing and so I told him. He was quite sympathetic and went over and asked the guards about my bags. He came back with the same story, please wait. Then he kept after me. He wanted to know where I was from and what I thought of Iran. I really didn't want to talk but thankfully he persisted. If he hadn't, I would have just sat there fuming. As it was I calmed down a bit.

Finally, the guards came back with my bags. The plane was starting to load so there wasn't time to check my things. Just as we were leaving another guards came over and showed my Iranian companion a knife that they had found in another passenger's baggage. He said that was what they had been looking for. Well, anyway I had my bags back and was on my way.

My first hint that something was wrong came in Tehran. Went I tried to take a picture, I got an error message from my camera. I had a sinking feeling that they might have opened my camera and ruined the roll. Ha! I should have been so lucky. Back home when I went to pick up my pictures the clerk said, "Oh, we tried to call you. There was a problem." Problem indeed: all my film except for two half-rolls was completely blank, presumably overexposed by x-ray in Shiraz. I was heartbroken. It took weeks to get over that.

When I tell this story I am often asked if I think what happened was deliberate. That question shows the amount of distrust Americans feel toward Iran. I believe it was simple stupidity or carelessness and most certainly not malice - but it still hurts to think of all the great pictures I lost.

In Tehran I checked into the Kowsar Hotel. As soon as I was done I went looking for a taxi to take me to the Carpet Museum. I hadn't scheduled my arrival to Tehran very well and would only be there a day and a half. The problem was that the Islamic Museum, the one place I really wanted to see, closed early today and wasn't open at all tomorrow. In fact, I had read that most museums were closed Tuesday, my only full day, so I had to make the most of the time I had today.

At the taxi desk they wanted 20,000 Rials to take me to the Carpet Museum. I was shocked and told the guy that that was way, way too much - that was more than I had paid to get in from airport. He quickly dropped his price to 15,000 but that was still too much for me. I said, "Forget it, I'll walk," and headed out of the hotel. As I was crossing the parking lot a driver came running after me and yelled, "Mister. 10,000. Ok?" That was more like it.

When I got to the Carpet Museum I found it was closed. The guard said it would be open the next day - how confusing. I decided to give up on museums and just take a leisurely stroll. I noticed two things as I walked. First, people were much less interested in me here in Tehran: I guess that was to be expected. Actually it was somewhat of a relief to be completely ignored again. Second, Tehran was quite pleasant to walk around. I had expected a huge, ugly place and instead found the air was clear and the walking very pleasant. Immediately I wished I had allotted more time.

When I got close to my hotel I headed south on Vail-ye Avenue, one of the main shopping streets in Tehran. Along the way I stopped in a few shops. In one I finally found another kilim. After bargaining for a while, we agreed on a price and I walked out with my new purchase under my arm. I headed back to the hotel.

There was a Chinese restaurant in the lobby and I thought I would give it a try. I love Chinese food and think it's great fun to eat it wherever I travel. In fact, I can hardly pass up a Chinese restaurant. This one, I'm sorry to report, wasn't very good - but all the same, how many people can say they ate Chinese food in Tehran?

Tehran, Tuesday April 20
I got a taxi from the hotel in the morning. I asked to be taken to the Glass and Ceramic Museum: I had read that it was open on Tuesday. Instead the driver stopped at the Islamic Museum that was just down the street and which my guidebook said was closed. I was going to argue with the driver, but decided to just get out and walk the short distance to the Glass and Ceramic Museum.

As I was standing at the curb I thought I saw someone walk into the Islamic Museum. "Hum," I thought, "Yesterday the Carpet Museum was supposed to be open but it was closed. Today the Islamic Museum is supposed to be closed, so maybe it's open." I walked over and sure enough it was open. What luck - I was delighted. It was full of great Islamic stuff: hand written Korans, calligraphy in tiles and arabesque patterns carved in wood. I spent the next hour exploring the displays.

Next, I got my map out and headed over to Ferdosi Street, another busy shopping area. The day was sunny and pleasant and I walked along looking in all the shops. Finally, I tired and took a taxi back to the hotel and had lunch. Afterwards I took one last trip out - to the Carpet Museum again. The guy at the taxi desk said, "Didn't you go there yesterday?" Oh, it's a long story.

After a quick tour of all those incredible carpets that I could never afford, I walked back and spent the afternoon in the hotel lobby talking to the staff. Later in the afternoon I packed up and got ready to head to the airport for my flight home.

After the ugly experience in Shiraz I wanted to get to the airport early. I arrived the recommended 3 hours before departure and, much to my surprise, I whizzed through security unchallenged. In fact, I was so early that they closed the departure lounge leaving me sitting inside alone. After awhile a guard came over to talk. He was in his late 20's and spoke very little English. He asked to look at the book I was reading and, when he found a rate card from the hotel that was written in both Farsi and English, he used it to ask me how much money I made. We compared the price of food and clothes and finally he asked me to give him $10.

Now, here I was in the departure lounge alone with a security guard, a guy I figured could make my life infinitely more complicated, and he was asking for money. I figured simply blowing him off wasn't the best approach. So I delayed. I shook my head and said, "Let me tell you something, my friend: you don't get money by simply asking for it. It just doesn't work that way." I smiled at him. He smiled back and asked, "No?"

Of course, he didn't understand what I was saying, but I figured he would get the message eventually- and I hoped it wouldn't anger him. I repeated the same line several times. Finally he got called away. As he left I said, "Bye bye." He nodded at me and walked off repeating what I had just said, "Bye bye. Bye bye." Thankfully that was the last I saw of him. Soon my flight was called and I left for home.

I loved Iran and Iranians. Even that knuckle-headed security guard asking for money was a pleasant fellow. It was a great place to travel: the people were gentle and the sights spectacular. There was rarely a dull moment.

That said, Iran isn't for everybody - I mean, how many travelers would make Iran his or her first overseas trip? But for the seasoned traveler, especially one who loves the Middle East, Iran is a gem. There are few tourists and you will surely receive a very warm welcome.

Getting Around
The night I first arrived in Tehran I was met by a guy from the travel agency. He was holding a little sign with my name on it. He said, "Welcome. Come over here, I have something to show you." He then led me to the far side of the arrival hall. There he handed me a folder: my itinerary, air tickets and a bunch of stuff written in Farsi. He then took me outside and put me in a taxi. While I'm sure I could have gotten a taxi by myself, it was reassuring to have someone meet me as it was well after midnight when I arrived. It was just one less thing I had to worry about after a long journey.

The next morning the same guy came to my hotel and took me to the domestic airport for my flight to Isfahan. I paid the fare for both of these taxis. That was the last I saw of him. I'm also sure I could have gotten to the airport by myself but that service was included. At the airport there was no problem as all the destinations sighs were written in English as well as Farsi. In fact, my tickets were written in English.

The rest of the time, except for the trip to Yazd, Kerman and Bam, I was on my own. I walked miles and miles and felt completely safe, no matter how far off the beaten path I wandered. The streets were pretty clean and almost always full of people. The traffic, even in Tehran, didn't seem that bad to me - not when compared to Delhi or Cairo.

When my feet gave out, I took taxis. In Isfahan the drivers repeatedly tried to overcharge me but they were no worse than other place I have visited. As always it's a good idea to ask at the hotel to get an idea what the normal fare is. It also helps to get a card with the hotel name written in Farsi. Then you can just show it to the taxi driver when you want to go back.

Ann Arbor, Michigan
May 1999

P.S.
Here is one of the few pictures from Iran.

Part One: Isfahan
Part Two: Yazd, Kerman & Bam
How I got my vias
Hotel reviews

Read more of my travelogues

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